Doubt and Resolution
by bookwormgrl
Summary: Matthew returns to a world altered by the war, but is it too late to change their fate?  Matthew/Mary.
1. Chapter 1

The skin stretched across his shoulder blades was hot and tight, an echo of the pain that brought memories of suffocating mud, the revolting stench of his own skin burning, and screams that still woke him in the night.

Matthew flinched at the memory, feeling the familiar pull of the black abyss that had haunted him since Flanders. Involuntarily, he traced the long, thin scar along his temple, a talisman of his own survival.

His hand dropped when he saw the expression on his mother's face, a crack in the joy that had shown like a bright summer's day from the moment of his return.

He sighed. He had hoped, desperately hoped that when he returned to his mother's house, that he would find himself once again in the comfortable and peaceful home of the past.

But everything had changed.

There were few young men on the streets of Downton. It was a town of women and the very old and the very young. On the outskirts of town, fields that had stretched out lush and green were now plowed under, the land itself employed in the business of war.

Nothing had been left untouched by the horrors of the past four years.

Shaking off these shadows, Matthew smiled reassuringly at his mother, as she poured his tea. It had hurt him to see how much she had aged while he had been gone. The hands handling the delicate china were red and raw from working, he knew, night and day at the hospital.

The hospital. It was no longer the small country hospital that had given some substance to his mother's new life in Downton years ago. War too had changed this. The great house itself had been transformed into a massive hospital, the grand family regulated to a wing of their ancestral home.

It was inevitable. It was a phenomenon that he had struggled with since leaving England…he could not think of the family at Downton Abbey, read a letter from Lord Grantham, without thinking of _her_. Of the searing pain that he had felt as he walked away from it all…the last memory of home before the great wave of destruction that rose to swallow high and low alike.

His mother's voice brought him back to the present and to Crawley House.

"I…I will have to go to the hospital before too long, I'm afraid, Matthew. Poor Dr. Finchley is quite desperately understaffed," she said apologetically, regretting that the long awaited reunion with her son would be cut short.

"It's quite all right, Mother. It will be a nice change to be master of my own schedule, with the power to be as idle as I desire. "

She smiled. "Well that might do for today…but we shall see tomorrow."

"One day at a time, Mother, one day at a time." He leaned back against the soft cushion of the sofa, and savored the sweet smell of the tea before taking a tentative sip.

"Of course, you could come up to the house with me…if you had a mind to." She casually proposed.

Over the edge of delicate teacup, Matthew raised his crystalline blue eyes to meet her steady gaze, and the edge of his mouth rose in an appreciative smirk.

"I see you have decided to waste no time."

"Matthew, they are your family and this ridiculous rift must be addressed."

"Mother, " he lowered the cup to the table impatiently, "as you well know, I have no quarrel with Lord Grantham and his family. I just wish to live my life on my own terms. Not theirs."

"Of course you do. But to hide yourself here at Crawley House is not living life on your own terms. It's to live life in denial of the truth. You will be an Earl, and Downton Abbey will be your home. You cannot entirely avoid the family that lives there now or forget that their future may very well be in your hands one day."

Matthew held her gaze, the military man that he had become admiring the nurse within her that gave her the willingness to state, without flinching, these cold, hard truths. He pressed his lips together, not acknowledging the hit, but he saw her face relax. She knew she had won the argument.

"Ah, Mrs. Crawley. I'm so glad to see you." An aged country doctor of no less than seventy approached them across the marble foyer, a weary smile on his face.

Matthew quickly took in the beds that stretched across the atrium, the moans that came from the adjacent library. War had invaded Downton Abbey, altering forever in his mind the peacefulness of the establishment.

"Thank you, Dr. Finchley. May I introduce my son, Major Matthew Crawley."

"Major Crawley, it's a pleasure to finally meet you in person, I've heard so much about you."

Matthew smiled, as his mother turned her head away, presumably in embarrassment.

"I can only imagined the unbiased reports that may have come your way; mothers are not known for looking at their children with jaundiced eyes."

"Well it's good then that I had a corroborating authority," the good-humored doctor replied with a chuckle.

Matthew turned with a raised eyebrow to his normally unreserved mother, to find she would not meet his eye.

"Ah. So my mother recruited an ally to her cause. Well, I had best admit defeat when in battle with such formidable foes."

The doctor's chuckle became a guffaw, and when he had recovered, he beckoned them forward into the atrium.

While the doctor kindly began to outline to his visitor the number of beds in the hospital and other particulars of their situation, Matthew was distracted, his eye naturally drawn up into the soaring space of light and airiness that served in such a contrast to the bedlam below. He had seen enough of Army hospitals; he had no desire to see more.

His mother must have noted his lack of attention because she politely turned the conversation away from discussions of dysentery and the threat of influenza at the first opportunity.

"Doctor, as always, I admire how well you manage this very large establishment. In my experience, even much smaller hospitals could benefit from some of the methods and practices that you have put into place here."

The doctor fairly glowed under the praise of Matthew's mother, a sign of how much respect she had earned in the town and its environs over the years. A match for the Dowager Countess, indeed.

Before the good doctor could continue with a conversation that had clearly made her son uncomfortable, Isobel inquired after the family of the house.

"Ah, yes. I would imagine that with young Major Crawley's return, you would want to be meeting with the family." The doctor smiled, while Matthew looked away with conflicted feelings.

"As you know, Lord Grantham is serving in the War Office in London. But Lady Grantham and Lady Mary are in, if you would like to me have the butler sent for."

"Thank you, Dr. Finchley."

The doctor left them in the foyer, in search of a servant to fetch old Mr. Carson.

Matthew stood, stiff in his uniform, awash in conflicting emotions. Lady Grantham and Lady Mary…Mary. He had thought he had prepared himself for this day, but now, he found the tightness in his chest belied the cold detachment that had frozen on his face.

His mother turned to him, concern on her face. Perhaps she questioned now the prudence of her own schemes.

"As you know, your Cousin Sybil has been working at a field hospital in France these past two years."

Matthew nodded, his thoughts still in a riot.

"But…I have been loath to touch on one subject…I did not mention Mary's activities since you departed."

Matthew snorted. No, neither she nor Lord Grantham had mentioned Mary more than five times in their many letters over the years. It had given him license to imagine many fates for the beautiful woman with whom he had once hoped to build his own future.

His mother continued in a hushed voice. "Mary would not leave her mother alone, once Edith had married Sir Anthony Strallen and Sybil had gone to France. But she has not been idle. Not long after you left, she asked me to train her as a nurse. We have been working side by side here since the hospital was moved to Downton Abbey."

Isobel was unable to continue, as the familiar figure of the house's butler approached them, leaving Matthew in a storm of emotions.

The butler seemed little changed to Matthew, one of the few emblems of a past age that appeared untouched. The cautious delight that lit the servant's eyes was evident as he welcomed the future Earl back to Downton Abbey.

"Thank you, Mr. Carson. It is a pleasure to be back." Matthew automatically responded, immediately questioning his own words. Was it a pleasure? What were the emotions that warred in his heart?

The butler led them slowly up the stairs, leading them to the makeshift drawing room that the family now used for their rare visitors.

As Matthew watched the figure of the butler, memories that he preferred to forget came flooding back.

He had glanced back once, on that impossibly beautiful summer day, and had been startled to see the proud Lady Mary bent in grief within the warm embrace of the older man.

The sight of the servant acting as father, in the stead of the man who held that honor, had shaken his resolute faith in his own decision.

Lord Grantham was a good man, a very good man by any standard. But for the first time, Matthew had seen the want, the sin of omission. At that moment, he had understood her, known her as he never had before.

It hadn't been enough to make him turn back. But the doubt that had blossomed in his chest that day had plagued him during the dark intervening years.

And now he knew. She had not married. Had not left Downton. Had not lived up to his darkest thoughts on her eventual fate. And that old doubt flared up renewed.

His mother reached out and touched his hand, a brief gesture that brought him back to the moment. It was then he heard himself announced.

"Milady, Mrs. Crawley."

Four years. Four years of doubt, resolution, love, and sometimes hatred. All came flooding back as he stepped back into the remains of the life that he had left behind.


	2. Chapter 2

"And Major Crawley…"

All sound seemed to die in her ears at the announcement.

Numbly she stood, forcing an automatic smile to her face as her mother approached their Cousin Isobel in greeting.

"Matthew, I cannot tell you how delighted we are that you have returned to Downton. I'm sorry that Robert is not here to greet you as well. I know how much it would mean to him to be here himself to welcome you back." Her mother spoke with genuine warmth, having come to care deeply for the cousin who would inherit her wealth and her husband's title.

Cousin Isobel was herself still glowing; the joy of her son's return lit her features like a flame from within.

Matthew smiled, "I had dinner with Lord Grantham last night in London before catching the morning train. He sends his best and said he hopes to be able to make the trip himself in a week's time."

Cora smiled a tremulous smile. Her mother craved the short and rare visits that her father had been able to make to Downton since the war had begun. To see their genuine affection at those tender reunions had been touching, but had also rubbed at a raw wound of her own making.

Mary knew that she had been staring at her cousin since his entrance; an unladylike display, but she could not help herself. To see him again was a warm spring rain that thawed the cold earth after a harsh winter.

And then he turned to her politely. "Cousin Mary."

She was lost. The deep blue pools of his eyes pulled her under the swift current of emotions that had always swirled just beneath the surface.

She remembered the intense look he had given her when she had first coyly confessed her own attraction to him, before they had shared their first kiss, before he had asked her to share his life and be his wife.

She also remembered how those same eyes had burned coldly when he accused of her of not loving him enough to marry him when his prospects were in doubt. And his words, so ironic in the context of the actions that she had hidden from him and the world, still haunted her: _Are you a good liar? _

She realized that an awkward moment had passed with no response to his brief greeting.

"Matthew."

She hated that her voice trembled, that she could force no smooth words from her lips. She was robbed of all language, struck dumb by his presence, something that had only been a dream sustaining her for the past four years.

Her eyes were drawn to the long, thin scar that traced his temple – still new enough that it had not weathered yet to silver. Unaware of her own actions, she stepped towards him, filled with a desperate wish to caress the scar that made him only more handsome in her eyes. As if one touch would make him real. She caught herself in time, but briefly saw in his eyes recognition of the act not done. He flinched almost imperceptibly, and Mary felt her chest constrict. Years of silence between them and he had not forgiven her. Perhaps the kernel of heartbreak and disappointment that she had left him with before the war had grown and blossomed into full-fledged hatred.

It had not taken her long to regret her indecision with Matthew all those years ago. But when she had resolved to throw herself upon his understanding and mercy, to come clean with all and declare her feelings, it had been too late.

* * *

The morning after the declaration of war, Mary was preparing to ride to the village to find Matthew, having resolved to declare all to him. As she headed out, she saw her father sitting in the library, his head resting in his hand. She had rarely seen him look so vulnerable, excepting when her little unborn brother had been lost, and found herself silently drawing up to him.

"Papa?" She asked, concern in her voice. She hoped that he had not yet volunteered for service; she knew the day would come, but it would crush her already fragile mother. Her father raised troubled eyes to her, and reached out to hold her hand. Fear creeping up her spine, his fingers burned her palm.

"Mary…" He swallowed, looking at her pityingly. "Matthew…Matthew has left. He's gone to London to enlist. He took the first train this morning."

She backed away from him, leaving his hand to drop back by his side. Unable to face the pity in his eyes, she turned and rushed to the front foyer.

"Carson!" Her voice was unusually frantic, but she cared not that her manners might be exposing her to the knowing looks of her family and the servants.

"Milady?" Carson appeared almost immediately, concern etched on his face.

"Have Branson fetch the car…immediately!" She was breathless, a desperate plan forming in her mind.

"Mary." It was her father's voice, authoritative and questioning. He stood in the doorway to he library, his hand still holding the note that had probably broke the news of his heir's departure.

She turned to him, shaking her head.

"I have to go to him, Papa. I can't let him go without…" she broke off, unable to finish the sentence.

Her father's face was filled with doubt. She knew she had disappointed him again. She had not accepted Matthew when she'd had the chance, and she had lived up to his worst expectations of her character. She looked away; too many times to count she had felt this crushing sense of unworthiness.

His voice was low when he finally spoke, "Go, Mary." She took a deep breath of relief, but froze when he spoke again. "But I'm afraid it may be too late to fix what you have broken." She didn't look back at her father when she heard the sound of the car pulling up to the front of the house.

* * *

It _had _been too late. She had taken the train to London, accompanied by Branson, who had insisted that she not travel alone. They had barely spoken, but she'd sensed that he understood the hopeless mission that they were set upon. Perhaps it was something his Irish soul knew and respected, reaching for a love that one has unknowingly thrown away.

By the time that they had arrived in London, all was chaos. It seemed every eligible man, and many of the ineligible, was signing up to enlist. It had been nearly impossible to discover the unit that Matthew had signed up for, and by the time she had, there had been one final desperate trip with Branson to the train station.

The train carrying his unit had already been loaded, and she had thrown all caution to the wind. Calling his name, over and over, she had run down the platform, frantically searching the young faces for a familiar one. But if he heard her, he did not answer. In the end, Branson had had to take her firmly by the elbow, supporting her as they walked back to the street.

Mary's thoughts wandered hopelessly through this minefield of memories as Isobel and her mother gamely carried on their conversation. Matthew responded in a friendly and open manner when directly question or required to, but otherwise he remained as mute as herself. She took some small comfort from the fact that he had not met her with total equanimity, that he had not become indifferent to her. Somehow she preferred to be the object of his hatred than to be nothing to him. At least she stilled stirred something in his heart. Perhaps that was wrong, and an echo of her earlier selfish self, but it was true.

Every once in a while, she caught both her mother and her Cousin Isobel's looks in their direction. They were cautiously inquisitive, but nothing more. If they had held hopes that the two would fall into each other's arms in relief upon his return from war, they had been wrong.

The tangle of thoughts and emotions was cut through suddenly from a knock at the door. Carson barely had a chance to announce the doctor before he entered hurriedly but apologetically.

"Lady Grantham, please forgive the intrusion, but I was hoping to request Mrs. Crawley's assistance downstairs in the hospital."

Isobel caught the alarm in the doctor's voice, "What is it, Doctor?"

"Influenza, ma'am. " A chill made the hairs rise on Mary's arms. "I'm afraid it has returned."

Mary knew, from the good doctor and Cousin Isobel, that this new wave of pneumonia was far more deadly than the strain that they had weathered earlier in the year. They had waited in dread for its arrival since the first reports of the more virulent flu began to surface.

"Thank you, Doctor. I will be down in a moment." Dismissed – and free to return to his own worries – the doctor departed, leaving a sense of dread to settle upon the room.

Isobel turned to Cora, an authoritative edge now entering her voice. "Cousin, I must advise you and as much of your staff not essential to hospital operations, to depart Downton Abbey as soon as possible."

"Is that really necessary?" Cora asked, doubt and concern in her voice.

"I'm afraid it is the best course of action. The reports on this new virus are quite alarming. Perhaps the Dowager House?" Mary snorted in the background at the thought of her mother and her grandmother cooped up together in the smaller house on the estate. Her mother clearly shared her sentiments, for her lips were pressed together in distaste. Isobel, sensing that Cousin Violet's extended company might be too much for even her closest family, offered, "And of course you would be welcome at Crawley House."

Cora smiled at the gesture, even if she knew that it was ridiculous to consider a move to the small house in town. "No, you were quite right. Robert's mother will just have to put up with the inconvenience of company for the time being. It will rob her of the ability to swoop in upon us unaware, of course, but I'm sure she will find amusement in other ways."

Mary and Matthew shared a chuckle at the comment, but abruptly stopped themselves when they felt the shared intimacy of the moment.

"Good. I know that Lord Grantham will be at much better ease knowing that you and Mary are safely away while we weather this storm at the hospital. "

"Me? Going away?" Mary broke through. "I'm not going to Grandmama's. I'm staying here." Thoughts of Matthew were banished for a moment as she fought against the assumption that she would abandon her duties to the hospital, to the men downstairs, running with her tail between her legs until danger passed.

Her mother's voice was a harsh whisper, "Mary! We will discuss this later. But please remember that you promised your Father…"

Mary stood, color rising in her cheeks. "Mama! I promised Father that I would not do anything rash. And I haven't. I'm not in France with Sybil, am I? I stayed here, I stayed at Downton. But I'm not leaving Downton now. I didn't ask Cousin Isobel and Dr. Finchley to support my training so that I could leave when they needed me most."

"Mary," both her mother and Cousin Isobel began.

"I'm sorry, Mama, but my mind is quite made up." Mary straightened, and turned to leave the room, her thoughts already on the deadly fight they faced downstairs, on the men who would face another deadly battle—this time on the home front.

The expression on the face of the one man in the room, however, caught her eye as she walked out with her head held high. The assessing look, the hint of admiration in his eyes, made her throat catch, but with all the will power she could muster, she forced her mind back on the task at hand.

As much as it made her heart ache, Matthew, for the moment, would have to wait.


	3. Chapter 3

Good Lord, her shoulders ached.

The light was dim in the main hall, the nurses on night duty moving like phantoms between the beds. Voices murmured in the shadows, and every once in a while, a low moan arose from the dark cots that lined the makeshift walkway.

Mary raised a fatigued hand to push a stray hair off her damp brow. It had been a long afternoon that was now stretching into what promised to be an even longer night. In dreadfully quick succession, they had already lost three souls to the contagion. They had only just arrived at the hospital and most likely had brought with them the newest wave of influenza that was spreading like wildfire at the field hospitals nearest to the front lines.

A hollow feeling in her stomach reminded her that she had not eaten since breakfast, sustenance forgotten in the attempts to limit the spread of the flu. She knew that those efforts would likely prove futile. The alarming reports from France and Belgium suggested that up to half patients at Downton could perish in this newest wave.

It made her heart ache to think that young men, often shattered by their injuries but grateful for the small mercy of having lived to return to their homeland, could suddenly face such a merciless and deadly foe here in the English countryside far from the trenches. Not that she felt that one death was more noble than the other. Four years of seeing the physical horror of war written on the broken bodies of men and boys had cured her of any romantic views of battle. No, survival and returning to cherished loved ones was the only worthy goal in the end.

Mary shook her head of these dark thoughts, feeling slightly lightheaded from fatigue and hunger. Slowly, she made her way to the front of the house with the intention of finding one of the few servants her mother had left behind, in order to request a plate of sandwiches be made up for herself and the extra staff on hand due to the outbreak. But when she saw the bench that had been set up in the front foyer of the house for visitors, she couldn't find the energy to continue her quest.

Gingerly, she sat on the cushioned bench and allowed herself a solitary moment of quiet. Despite her best efforts, she couldn't stop herself from leaning back against the wall or prevent her eyes from sliding shut. She took a deep breath, nearly giving in to the overwhelming desire to melt into languid sleep.

It was a solitary footstep that alerted her to his presence, and she hurriedly and self-consciously straightened up from her unladylike position.

Matthew stepped out from the shadows that led to the library, "I'm sorry. I did not mean to disturb you." He continued as he saw her unease, "Please don't trouble yourself."

Mary smiled, leaning back once more against the wall. "I know I _should_ trouble myself, but I'm simply too exhausted to follow the rules of etiquette at the moment."

"Well, luckily I have been told that I am not too fastidious when it comes to the rules myself." He chuckled, joining her on the bench.

Mary attempted to hide the surprise she felt. She had never known how it would be to see him again, how he would treat her. Now, he was here, and the banter between them felt so…natural. He had every reason to resent her. But perhaps he had learned that aristocratic ability to feign delight in the company of even those he despised.

Matthew must have felt the awkwardness of the moment, or seen the confusion on her face. "I'm waiting to escort my mother home, although apparently I have underestimated her stamina for the day."

"Yes, she is an amazing. She puts me quite to shame." Mary's eyes were drawn back to the main hall, where Cousin Isobel continued to her work, without pause and without complaint.

Matthew's gaze followed hers. "Well, there are few who can compete with my mother when it comes to stubborn determination. " He paused, and then continued in low voice. "But you should be proud of the work you do here, Mary."

She kept her face hidden from him, her cheeks burning with a confused mixture of embarrassment, pleasure and guilt. She gently shook her head. "I don't deserve your praise, Matthew."

Mary continued before her cousin could contradict her. "Your mother…Sybil…they have a calling, a zeal that I wish I had. I cannot tell you how many times I am felt a coward, how many times I have wanted to run away and pretend that none of _this_ exists." She spoke the last while gesturing to the house surrounding them, the home itself now enlisted in a war that touched every aspect of their lives.

"But you haven't…run, that is." He pointed out gently.

"No." She turned to face him finally with a small smile. "I haven't. But it's not been out of bravery. The only thing that stays my hand, the prevents me from being the coward that I am, is imagining that one of those men lying in there…" she turned away from him, overcome with unexpected emotion. "Is someone I know, someone I love."

Mary desperately tried to keep at bay the tears that suddenly threatened to spill down her cheeks, furious and embarrassed by her lack of control. Not even a day in his company, and somehow she had found herself confessing truths that she had hidden from the few companions that shared her current rather cloistered life. If only she had felt herself able to be as honest, as open, years earlier. Such regrets added a painful edge to the comfortable companionship he now provided. Her only consolation, and it was not one to be envied, was that the man she now knew still held her heart did not appear to despise her. But years of silence from him had made it clear that she had lost him, utterly and completely, on that summer's day so long ago.

A silence stretched between them, and Mary found herself unable to speak, unable to fulfill the obligations of a lady and a hostess to gently lead their conversation away from these treacherous waters.

It was Matthew who rescued them from the emotion-filled abyss.

"How does it fare with the influenza?" Death, their mutual companion during the years of silence, was a safer topic.

Mary sighed, both in regret and in relief at the lost moment. "We've lost three patients since this morning. But that is probably on a small harbinger of things to come. Once it takes hold here…" she trailed off, her worried eyes drifting back towards the main hall.

"Yes. I know." His voice was quiet, and Mary turned back to study him more closely. He had certainly lost weight while at war; his frame was now lankier, the line of his jaw now more chiseled than it had been in peacetime. The scar, that some would say marred his features, to her brought a tragic sharpness to his visage. He had the same impossibly blue eyes as before, but now they burned with an intensity she had only rarely seen before.

Her Matthew had seen firsthand man's ability to inflict unending horrors upon his fellow man; if it had not broken him, it had altered him. As it had also altered her.

Mary had not realized how much her thoughts must have been reflected in her face., until she met Matthew's searing gaze. What had earned the burning look that now held her captive? What had he read in her face? Did he think she pitied him? Whatever ease had briefly existed between them was gone; she watched as he withdrew, his face hardening.

"Matthew?" A familiar voice distracted them both, to Mary's grateful relief.

"Mother." Matthew responded, more flatly than appropriate considering how newly reunited they were. He rose, and Mary heard his small intake of breath and saw the pain that pulled at the corners of his eyes.

"I'm so sorry to have left you waiting for so long. Well…you know how it is…I hope Cousin Mary has kept you entertained for the moment."

Mary pressed her lips together in a tight smile. Isobel's gaze flicked over them both , and she was clearly assessing their demeanors with a critical eye. Mary doubted that she missed Matthew's stiff posture or Mary's discomfiture.

"Yes. Yes, she has." He answered politely, proving that he had mastered some of the skills of the aristocracy, to include the ability to lie smoothly.

"Ah, well." Isobel had assessed the situation and now appeared ready to make her strategic move: retreat. "Mary, I know you often provide a light supper," she began apologetically.

"No, no. I understand. I am sure you would much rather be at home tonight." As would Matthew, Mary thought, trying not to feel bitter when Matthew refused to meet her gaze.

"Thank you, my dear." Isobel reached out and took her hand, lightly squeezing it. It was an unusual gesture for Cousin Isobel, and Mary understood it for what it was: a sign of sympathy from a woman who had read the situation all too well.

"Cousin Mary." Matthew bowed slightly in farewell, as he took his mother's arm.

"Matthew." Mary swallowed, the lump in her throat threatening to choke her. She didn't really understand what had passed between them, but it had a feeling of finality. She held her head high, her figure erect, as he walked, once again, away from her and, almost certainly, out of her life.


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks to all for their kind reviews for the past chapters of this story. Apologies for the long delay in updating...I hit a bit of writer's block with this chapter, but I hope you enjoy!

* * *

Matthew refused to acknowledge his mother's pointed looks as they entered the foyer of Crawley House. A heavy silence lay between them as their faithful housemaid took his mother's light coat, the soft rustling of cloth the only sound that broke the stillness of the darkening night.

"Thank you, Ellen. Please let Mrs. Bird know that we have returned and would like some sandwiches made for Major Crawley and myself."

"Yes, ma'am," the maid answered with a quick bob. The small staff had become used to the variable schedule that the war had imposed on Mrs. Crawley and Crawley House, and Mrs. Bird had mastered the lesser culinary arts necessary in these unpredictable times.

Matthew left his mother in the foyer as he quickly took a seat in the sitting room, acutely aware that she was determined to engage him on the one topic that he most wished to avoid. He had no desire to discuss the coldness with which he had treated his cousin upon their departure or the anger that had boiled and seethed under the surface on the drive home.

The bloody war. What it had not obliterated, it had twisted and distorted. Having always been a man of cool temper, he had struggled with bouts of blinding fury in the many weeks of his recovery; rages that flashed hot as lightning and passed just as quickly. In their wake would come an all-consuming hollowness, a cold darkness that pulled at him like a relentless riptide,

But how could he explain such feelings to his own mother, explain that the war had somehow twisted his very soul.? He did not want to see _that_ in her eyes: pity. It was like a cold knife that slowly twisted in his gut, the knowledge that he was viewed with pity-or even worse-in esteem as a hero. He deserved neither. He knew the truth. Young boys and men who had deserved pity, if from no one but their God, had found none. The heroes had died alone between the lines, calling softly for their mothers until they sounds of their cries slowly died out.

The intent look on his mother's face pulled him from these thoughts. She spoke no words, suddenly cautious as she tried to read the emotions on his face.

Yes. He had treated Mary coldly, he grudgingly conceded to himself. It had not been, at least at the end, the encounter he had imagined in the trenches. That had been the dream of a fevered mind, driven nearly mad by the war and an aching longing that he had wished to forget. The dream had many versions, but each had one commonality: Mary greeting him upon his return with shining eyes and a rare smile that betrayed the love that he had once thought he had held for him and for him alone.

God, how different was reality! She had not met him with equanimity, to be sure. But he had never…to see pity in her eyes. He swallowed down the bile that rose in this throat. He would not give in to the dark anger that rose like wave to consume him.

"I'm sorry, Mother," he apologized, cognizant that in the turmoil of his thoughts on Mary, the darkness of his mood threatened the fragile happiness that his mother had gained upon his unexpected return.

Isobel sighed, "Please don't apologize to _me_, Matthew." The emphasis was not lost on him, but he was determined not to take the bait, although he had little doubt that she would elaborate.

"But…" He had been right. "Please…try not to…" Uncharacteristically, his mother seemed to have suddenly found herself at a loss for words. He raised an eyebrow at her hesitation, finding himself refreshingly amused that his indomitable mother had found a topic that made her pause. A rare moment indeed!

Isobel was not amused by his silent but nonetheless clear response. "Don't be insufferable, Matthew, you know what I am trying to say, " she snapped, any delicacy of her approach now abandoned.

"I take it, Mother, that you are attempting to speak on behalf of our Cousin Mary."

"I'm only saying that you might want to be cautious about judging Mary too harshly upon your first meeting." Isobel smoothed her skirt with a businesslike gesture. "Time has given me better insight into your cousin, and quite honestly…"

Matthew cut her off abruptly. "Mother, I am sure…"he stopped himself. How could he explain to her the conflicting emotions that he felt at the thought of Mary. He continued, shaking his head wearily, "Please, just leave it be." His tone was more pleading than he would have liked, but it would have to do.

Isobel Crawley pressed her lips together and looked away. The night was late. A battle was perhaps lost. The war was long from over.

* * *

Two weeks. Two weeks of back-breaking work, meals that were only a blur, and dying men. So much death…so quickly. Mary had never thought to see anything worse than the horrors made on the battlefield. But to see a young man, on the mend with the hope of home burning in his eyes, suddenly fall ill and die within a few short hours…it was cruel, nearly too cruel to bear.

And it was a death that had not stayed its hand with the staff. Two nurses had also succumbed to this newest, most virulent contagion. Her mother had pleaded with her to withdraw from Downton; letters had arrived from her father that did not dare to order her to leave, but entreated her to use her "common sense."

Mary had stifled a snort upon reading that particular line. She hadn't been aware that anyone in the family held the opinion that she had been overly burdened with that particular virtue. Of course, she had ignored their advice. To return to the gilded cage that was her parents' domain? No – here she had a purpose, she was needed. And it had nothing to do with being an Earl's daughter or a beauty. As much as each day challenged her sanity, she had never felt freer.

Matthew's return though had sent ripples across the small life that she had built for herself in the tight space between the world of the hospital and the world of her family. It had been a struggle, to resist the pressures to settle down with the few remaining bachelors within her reach, but her family had finally accepted that she would not conform to society's expectations of her. It helped that the onset of the war had distracted society's eyes from the marital status and reputation of the eldest daughter of the house. Perhaps some of her family held their own unspoken opinions as to the reasons behind her refusal to even consider a match. She hardly cared as she thrived in the relative freedom of the hospital. But now Matthew had returned, and she hardly knew how she felt about her cousin and even less about how he felt about her. She felt frustratingly powerless once more.

The past two weeks had then been an especially cruel torture, as it had become Matthew's habit to arrive at hospital in the waning hours of the day, to await his mother's departure and travel with her to their shared home. Each day, her eyes unwillingly were drawn to his now-military erect form, as he stood on the edges of the storm, providing assistance when a strong body was needed.

It was Mary, then, who caught the wince that Matthew made as he lifted a stretcher one evening, and followed his retreating figure with worried eyes. And she could not suppress the gasp that escaped her lips when she saw the hint of blood soaking through the rough cotton of his uniform jacket when he returned.

"Matthew!" She had seen so much blood that it seemed strange that the sight of it should have any power left to shock her.

He turned a face to her uncomprehending and pale with exertion, but as he saw the direction of her gaze, he twisted in an effort to see what had caught her unwanted attention.

"Let me get your mother," she began, already turning to find Isobel in the chaos of the hospital.

"No!" He moved fast, capturing her slender wrist in his hand. He dropped it just as suddenly, as if the touch of her skin on his had burned him.

"But Matthew…you need someone to look…"

"Not my mother, Mary. I must ask this of you…I do not want her to see…"he trailed off, but his face burned with determination.

Mary swallowed, her eyes darting around. The doctors were overwhelmed, the nurses severely understaffed. "Come with me," she responded with a self-assurance that she did not feel. She walked ahead, leading him to a small area where sheets had been hung between the cots, affording them some small measure of privacy.

Matthew followed her to one such cot with a puzzled expression on his face. Puzzlement turned into resistance when he realized her intentions.

"No," he shook his head, anticipating her instructions.

"There are only a few choices here, Matthew. You can either allow myself or your mother to examine your wound. The doctors and nurses are too busy with other more critical patients at the moment…and anyway, if they examined you, your mother would know within minutes. " Mary raised a defiant chin. "But I will not let you play the fool and walk around this house bleeding…or worse."

Matthew stood silently for a moment, his gaze steady and intense. Mary felt her breath hitch, and she questioned her own wisdom in throwing down such a challenge. But before she could regret her decision, Matthew turned his back to her.

She thought for a moment that he was rejecting her offer until she saw that he was slowly unbuttoning his jacket. She trembled and felt a strange fluttering in the pit of her stomach. Lord, it was Matthew before her…her Matthew, she thought in her heart of hearts…not one of the countless and anonymous men whom she had treated over the years. A man's body no longer was a mystery to her, as it had been even after the unfortunate encounter with Kemal Pamuk. But a _man's_ body was a very different thing than _Matthew's_ body.

The khaki officer's jacket slowly came off, and Mary could now see that the blooming flower of red had spread even wider on the shirt underneath. Matthew slowly worked at the buttons in the front, and then seemed to pause at the end. Whatever inner debate he struggled with was resolved when he shrugged his shoulders to slowly peel the shirt away from his back.

Mary gasped as the material dropped from Matthew's back. She had been prepared to see many things, but sight of the twisted, shiny skin speckled with blood that stretched across his back like a bow between his shoulder blades made her suddenly lightheaded.

"Oh, Matthew." She whispered, raising a hand towards his back, not quite touching him, but hovering above the charred skin.

His answer was stiff and cold. "I don't want…or need your pity, Mary."

Mary's head snapped up, away from the ghastly sight of his wound. Was that it? She looked at the rigid set of his neck and could almost see the tension rising from him.

Mary swallowed, and allowed her hand to lightly—ever so lightly—touch the curve of his bare shoulder. "Matthew. There is a difference between pity…" she took a steadying breath, "…and concern for someone you..." She lost courage, the final words choking in her throat.

Silence stretched between them, but her hand remained on his shoulder, an electric current that she couldn't have broken if she had tried.

"I told you once Mary, don't play games with me." His voice was nearly unrecognizable, filled with anger, longing, and something else that made the ground underneath her feet shift.

Suddenly, the makeshift curtain was pulled aside. "Lady Mary? Doctor Finchley requested…"

Mary pulled her hand back, as if caught in a shameful act. And perhaps she had been, for the thoughts that had filled her head would not have been appropriate for civilized company.

The moment had gone, and Matthew slowly began pulling his shift back on. Mary stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"No, you need to have salve put on the wound and a proper bandaging done." Mary turned to the fresh-faced nurse standing awkwardly beside them, aware that she had somehow intruded. "Helen, can you treat Major Crawley while I see to Dr. Finchley's needs?" The young nurse bobbed her head. While Mary was a junior nurse at the hospital, no one made the mistake of forgetting that she was the daughter of nobility and their patroness.

Her emotions in turmoil, Mary hurried away from the cot, refusing to meet the gaze of Matthew as he turned to watch her go.


	5. Chapter 5

Quick note to apologize for the VERY long delay in posting an update to this story. The chaos of moving and the loss of my muse conspired to put this story on hiatus. A very big thank you to the anonymous person(s) who nominated "Doubt and Resolution" for a Highclere Award…I'm so glad that people have enjoyed this story. You truly inspired me to write again!

Matthew was numb to the pain that swept over him as the young nurse tended efficiently, if a bit nervously, to his scarred and bleeding back. Only the burning sensation of where _**her **_hand had rested on his bare shoulder broke through the haze that enveloped him.

Confusion, attraction, anger…each emotion battled for preeminence, but none conquered. He could not deny the knot in his stomach or the rapid breathing that still would not calm many minutes after her rapid retreat.

He had lived a life in the twilight since first seeing the horrors of the front and experiencing the awesome cruelty of modern battle. But he had found – as he was slowly reborn in the field hospitals of France – that amidst the unending gray, the passions-when ignited-burned all the more brighter for the gloom. It had been his anger, his rage that had first awoken this knowledge. It had made him both fear and relish the blinding flashes of fury; the ultimate confirmation that he was, after everything, alive.

It was a different passion that now burned in his heart. Much as he wished it were not so, he was not indifferent to his cousin. The slight touch of her hand against his skin now threatened to torture him through many a sleepless night. An unwanted image of her, hair loose around her shoulders and lips parted in desire, sent a small shudder through him, and he grimaced at the power she had over him.

He only returned to the present when he felt the absence of busy hands, turning to see the nurse as she gathered the detritus of her duties.

"Thank you, Nurse…" he hesitated, remembering his manners.

"Smith, sir." She bobbed slightly, shy in the presence of the handsome future Earl.

Shaking off thoughts best left alone, Matthew smiled kindly at the young woman and was once again conscious of the gulf that separated him from much of the real world due to his inheritance.

His inheritance. It had brought him hope and anguish, a torturous self-questioning, and—he had only recently admitted to himself—a hungering ambition. It was not, he told himself, the selfish ambition that he had watched with disgust amongst the officers of rank in the rear, their incompetence and folly a damning commentary on the upper classes and the aristocracy. No, his ambition—tattered but still palpable—was to use what influence, what power he had to improve the lives of those whose fates rose and fell with the fortunes of Downton. He had seen that the world was often a cruel place, but he would make some small pocket humane, if he could.

Matthew slowly slid his shirt back on, careful not to pull at the newly applied bandages.

"You need not bother putting that shirt back on, Matthew. It is quite done in."

Matthew stiffened at the crisp sound of his mother's voice, unwilling to turn to face the emotions playing across her face.

"Mother…" he began, in a tone that somehow was both an apology and a warning.

After a moment, he heard her sigh of resignation. "There should be a spare shirt around here that will do until we get home this evening. Until then, just slip your jacket on so as not to make any more impressionable young nurses swoon." He frowned but began to follow her instructions. "I had come to tell you that I should be ready to leave soon." She paused considering her next words, but then shook her head and walked away.

Matthew felt his mother's disappointment and shock. She had known that he had been injured. Had known of the time spent in the field hospitals. But neither he nor anyone with that knowledge had shared with her the details of his injuries. When he had returned, a little stiff but seemingly whole – only a rakish scar across his cheek – she had nearly collapsed with relief.

He could not regret his reticence. He had no desire to relive the experiences of the Flemish countryside. To complain about the pain that rippled across his body at times would be a betrayal of those braver souls who had suffered far more devastating wounds. He would remain silent, his own tribute to those men and the men beyond any suffering in this world.

Shrugging on his jacket, the khaki caught on his bandaging. As he struggled with the material, he heard a cry from the adjacent room.

Not bothering with the buttons, he sprung up from the cot, rushing towards the adjacent room where a scuffle could be heard. He had recognized the voice, although he had never heard it raised in alarm before.

The scene that met him was one of chaos. A soldier, his head roughly bandaged, was crouching on the floor, his voice muttering a litany of curses, the likes of which Matthew had not heard since the trenches.

An older doctor was vainly pulling at the young man, whose attention appeared to be focused on a figure beneath him.

It took a moment for Matthew to realize that the soldier was straddling Mary, her eyes wide with fear.

"You whore…you're all whores." Rough hands wrapped course fingers around her neck, while spittle caught in her hair.

Matthew felt nothing but blinding rage, as he lifted the soldier roughly off his cousin. With a crash, the two men fell back against the floor, and Matthew pressed his forearm against the windpipe of the delusional man.

"Major…" a voice that seemed far away called. "Major!" The voice was suddenly nearer, at his very ear.

Matthew eased his arm off the soldier's throat, careful however to keep his weight on the still-struggling body. Heavy footsteps approached, and only when competent hands held his opponent down by the shoulders did he look up. Two thick-necked men in uniform nodded at him, relieving him of his burden.

He stood, catching his breath, while the doctor who had despaired for a moment of the Major's own sanity gazed cautiously at him. But Matthew's attention quickly turned to the shaking figure still on the floor.

"Mary!" He kneeled next to her, helping her slowly to sit up. Her hand slowly rubbed at her neck above the cotton neckline of her shirt and he couldn't help but noticed the stray hairs that now framed her face.

"I'm quite…quite all right, Matthew." She glanced up at him, and saw the doubt in his features. "Please, just help me up."

He did as asked, still mistrusting her seemingly nonchalant attitude. As he lifted her, her hand brushed his bare chest, where his jacket gapped open. Mary blushed and turned aside as Matthew self-consciously buttoned up the garment.

Brushing at her skirt, Mary refused to meet his gaze. "It's really my fault. I should have known…"

Hearing him snort, she turned away, reaching for a letter scattered on the floor next to an upended cot.

"When I came to dress his wound, he had just found out that his sweetheart had married another man."

"That is no excuse for what he…" 

"No. It isn't. But…" She lifted her eyes to his, holding him captive in their gaze. "It is understandable, isn't it?"

Matthew begged to differ. He had seen the man's large fingers pressing into the soft skin of her neck. But he chose not to answer her.

"Can I…perhaps you ought to have one of the doctors or nurses take a look at you, Mary."

A sad smile crossed her face. "Thank you, Cousin, but amidst all this…"she spread her hands to signal the still bodies that lay around them, "…it would seem almost criminal to waste their time on something so trivial."

Before he could answer, she turned away, fleeing the chaotic scene and his searching countenance.

Matthew stood in the great foyer, still agitated by his earlier altercation, as Mr. Carson quietly slipped a coat onto his mother's shoulders.

"I heard of the incident earlier, Matthew. I hope everyone is sufficiently recovered, although engaging in a physical brawl is probably not part of your recommended recovery programme, " his mother finished somewhat dryly.

"Yes, Mother. I believe that everyone…" Matthew stopped himself. The rote assurances that all was fine died on his lips unspoken. Mary had done a very fine job of disappearing in the aftermath, to the point he suspected she was hiding from him.

"Actually, Mother. I apologize for this, but would you mind if I did not escort you home this evening? I would prefer…I want to make sure that Mary is quite recovered before leaving. It was a rather shocking scene, if a thankfully brief one."

Something warm glowed in his mother's eyes for a moment. "Of course, Matthew. Please let me know if Mary needs anything." He thought that she was going to offer to stay as well. But before he could object, for reasons even he did not understand, she turned for the door, leaving him to his own devices.

Resolved now to find the very woman that he had been avoiding for weeks, Matthew stood dumbly in the foyer, his thoughts in a whirlwind. Only Carson's quiet words brought him back to focus.

"Major, if I may be of assistance," the butler began with some hesitation. "I believe Lady Mary may have sought out the staff in the kitchen for a cup of tea to sooth her nerves. You may wish to start there." Before he could respond, the older man had retreated, his duty done.

As it was, it took Matthew several minutes to find the kitchen, and he hesitated to enter what was generally the domain the servants.

After a moment's pause, he saw her lithe figure, wrapped in a course woolen blanket on a rough bench along the wall. A cup of tea, half-drank, sat on the small table next to her. She seemed to be staring at a spot on the floor, and he could see where her cheeks glistened with tears.

He said nothing, but gingerly approached her, lowering himself onto the bench.

"He was right." Her voice was strained, haunted, sounding nothing like the over-confident woman he had known before the war. "I am a whore."

He drew a breath in shock, but was quieted by a trembling hand on his sleeve.

"Please." Her voice was hollow. "Let me do this, Matthew."

He tensed, sensing the storm about to be released. She withdrew her hand, her eyes still fixed in the distance, at some figure only present in her mind.

"The fall of…" She raised a hand to her forehead, trying to clear the memories. "Well, it doesn't matter anymore. When he came…"

"Who?" His voice was barely his own, constricted with tension.

"Kemal. Kemal Pamuk."

And there it was. He knew before she said anything more. In a rush, every interaction, every moment they had shared over the previous five years was recast.

"He came to my room…and…" Mary struggled to continue, faced with this moment of truth.

"Did you invite him?" Matthew choked out, struggling for breath.

"No!" Mary sharply responded, momentarily snapped out of the lethargy that had overwhelmed her.

Matthew tried to process this, but it was in vain. "Then did he...force…" He couldn't finish the thought, his head throbbing at the thought of that man and Mary sharing a bed.

"I…I told him to leave. But…he didn't. He told me I'd be ruined regardless if he was found in my room. But…no, he did not force himself." Her voice was small at the end, and she seemed to have shrunk upon herself.

Matthew swiftly stood, his breaths coming in short bursts. Walking to the counter along the wall, he kept his back to her while his hands clenched the table's edge.

"So you see, Matthew, what that young man said earlier today was true. I made…a terrible mistake. And I lost everything because of it." Her voice was now a whisper. "I lost you."

He turned to her in a sudden fury, his blue eyes blazing with a cold fire. "You can't expect me to believe this is the reason…"

"No, not the only reason. I wish I hadn't any other doubts, but I did." His face grew darker with this confirmation, and she continued in a rush. "But most of all, I was afraid, Matthew. Afraid that if I told you the truth that you would look upon with me with disgust. But I couldn't marry you without telling you the truth. I didn't know what to do."

"It never occurred to you that I might not reject you out of hand? Did you have so little trust in my love? That I couldn't understand what a…creature...like that could do to an innocent – no matter how sophisticated you thought you were?"

Mary seemed to crumple. "I was so scared, Matthew. I loved you…so much. How many men do you know would forgive such a transgression in the woman they were going to marry?' Her voice rose, her cheeks aflame. "One in a thousand? A million?" She stood, shaking like a leaf in a storm. "How many men would want to marry a whore?"

"Don't call yourself that," Matthew growled out.

"I took a lover, Matthew." He flinched, taking a warning step towards her. "Shut up."

But she continued, turning the knife deeper in his gut, "I let a man into my bed…"

Blinded by something unknowable, Matthew took a final step forward, closing the gap between them. Her eyes widened in surprise only a moment before his lips came crashing down upon hers, his hand roughly pulling her head towards him.

She struggled at first, but he only crushed her harder against his body. His mouth attacked her own, his tongue pressing for entry. Every uncontrollable emotion that had characterized his relationship with his cousin now came to the surface; anger, rage, lust, and a hint of something more rode on a wave that consumed him like a fire. His heart beating faster and faster, he pressed her back against the wall, reveling in the feel of her body against his.

After a moment, Matthew felt her relent, opening her mouth to him and meeting his tongue with her own. He felt surge of triumph, as he was consumed by one single-minded desire: to have her and to purge all memories of Pamuk from her mind and from her body.


	6. Chapter 6

First and foremost, a very big thank you to everyone for your reviews of this story over the past six months – I know it's been slow going, so I've really been so touched by your encouragement. I also want to thank all the folks who voted for this story on the Highclere Awards. Given the superb writers in the DA community, I cannot tell you how honored I am that Doubt and Resolution was nominated in the first place – and won! Thank you!

* * *

Her head swam, the taste of him both harsh and intoxicating. The slight stubble of his chin; his hands on her shoulders, pressing her back; his mouth demanding against her own—every touch burned, feeding within her an almost unimaginable desire.

His hand rose, capturing possessively the side of her face, and he pulled back, taking her in with eyes dark with desire. It was a look that made her gasp, but also awoke a small kernel of resistance. Ever fiber of her body was alive and wanted to reach for him, to make that connection again, consequences be damned. But something – some stubborn-headed remnant of an older version of herself—made her pause.

As he pulled her roughly towards him, almost without thought she pressed her hands against his chest.

"Matthew," she breathed, her voice giving away her conflicting emotions. If he heard her, there was no sign, as his mouth captured hers again, demanding her acquiescence, her submission. Involuntarily, her tongue darted out to meet his, and with a tug of his hand, she felt her hair come loose, the rebellious locks cascading down her shoulders. His other hand grabbed the fabric of her skirt, and she felt the hemline slowly rising, revealing first an ankle, then a slender calf, and soon was scandalously above her knee.

Her knees nearly buckled at the first touch of his hand beneath the protective layers of her skirt. A wave of desire and panic overcame her, and almost without thinking she both clutched at Matthew's shirt and pushed him away, breaking their connection again.

"Matthew!"

His free hand was in her hair, and she saw him take a breath, clearly trying to bring himself under control, although she still felt the heat of his other hand through her stocking. Her hands still rested on his chest, and she realized that one had inadvertently slipped underneath, where the material gapped between hastily fastened buttons. The shock of his bare skin, the feel of his rapidly beating heart, sent a shiver down her body. She looked down so that he could not read the answering desire in her own eyes.

Her own desire. _Good Lord_, that had been her downfall in the first place. If she had denied herself in the past, shown some restraint in the face of _that_ man's seduction, she would never have lost Matthew in the first place.

And now, this must surely serve as proof of her own wantonness.

Her voice shook. "I…I cannot blame you for…" She swallowed back the tears that threatened to spill.

Matthew's face was unreadable, and she could not bear to see disappointment, or worse, disgust in his eyes. Unable to speak further, to hear the words of condemnation that she knew must follow, she fled, the dark look he gave her leaving a hollow pit in her stomach.

* * *

Matthew sat alone in the kitchen for over an hour, staring into the nothingness of the dying fire. In his mind, he replayed over and over Mary's confession, the uncontrollable anger that had consumed him in response, and the _other_ emotion that had soon overtaken the rage. The memory of her taste, and warmth of her skin against his touch, filled him with both desire and shame. Had she not pushed him away, what would he have done? Would he have further defiled her in his lust?

The past was still a puzzle_, she_ was a puzzle. But her liaison with Pamuk made at least some of those pieces make more sense. He knew two things with the sharp clarity of a survivor: that she hated herself, or at least the part of herself that had yielded to the wretched Turk, and that he loved her completely, even that part she most despised.

He sought her out, knowing that their encounter earlier had only confirmed in her mind her worst judgments of her own character. He feared that she had withdrawn to her room, and for a moment, he envisioned boldly following her to that sacred sanctuary, but shook off such thoughts upon remembering that that haven had been breached before.

In the end, he had not needed to contemplate such measures. He found her, sitting on the moonlit terrace outside of the former library.

"Mary?" He spoke gently.

He saw her stiffen, but she did not turn to meet him. Her skin nearly glowed in the soft moonlight, and he had to swallow down the desire that rose low in his belly.

"I am sorry for my behavior earlier. It was inexcusable." He heard her breath hitch in surprise and saw her turn slightly. "I have not…lost control like that since France…since the hospitals. I had not thought that I was still capable of…"

He did not know how to continue. How to tell her of the changes that the war had wrought…on his body…on his very soul. "I have tried to be like I was. For you. For my mother. For everyone here. But I am not the same person who left Downton four years ago. "

"I know Matthew," came the soft reply, a whisper on the night wind.

"And perhaps I unfairly expected that nothing here would have changed while I was gone. That none of you would have changed." She turned her head now, and Matthew caught her dark gaze . "It made me blind to the truth around me."

Mary twisted in her chair, still not quite facing him, and her face a mask of pain. "I am not proud of some of things I have done, Matthew. And not just…Pamuk" She finished the sentence in a whisper. "I know that I have the capacity to be quite cruel. But…" she paused, as if still forming the thought in her own mind. "I have been so lonely…for so long…it's made me blind, or perhaps just numb, to the pain I inflicted."

She must have seen something pass across his face, for she answered his unspoken question. "Yes…lonely. That sounds ridiculous doesn't it? What a joke!" She laughed mirthlessly. "But I can tell you, I have never been so alone as I have been in a London ballroom during the Season, in turns flirting with or disdaining the potential suitors sent my way by Mama.

"What a spoilt child I was…I _am_. Bored with my toys, always wanting something more. But I was such a fool, I didn't even know what I wanted or how to get it. And I'm ashamed to admit that I've never been as brave as Sybil. She knew what she wanted, and devil be damned, she went after it." Mary shook her head with a sad smile. "I've always loved her for her bravery, even when I was jealous of it at the same time."

Matthew approached her cautiously, still standing, his eyes resting on what he now saw was her tear-stained face.

"I don't know. I've never doubted that you had your fair share of bravery…" he began.

Mary rose abruptly, anger and self-loathing making her next words as sharp as cut glass. "But I wasn't brave enough to tell you, was I?" She paused, and continued in a smaller voice. "And I will admit that I was a little afraid of the prospect of being a solicitor's wife."

He frowned, but she continued. "I think, now that I look back on it, I was afraid that I _would_ feel the loss of my station, that I _was_ that petty, and that I would in turn make you miserable."

"I wish that you had had enough faith in me to share that with me at the time…and the Pamuk business."

"Oh Matthew, why would you have wanted to be with a woman like me?" Her voice rose, tinged with something close to despair. "I am a lost cause." Her voice broke in a near sob.

Matthew reached out, capturing her arm and pulling her against the warmth of his body.

"Then we are two lost causes, Mary," he murmured in her hair, breathing deeply the faint scent of roses that, subconsciously, had always reminded him of her.

He tucked his hand underneath her chin, raising her face to his. "I'm broken, Mary. More than I seem. And I don't know that I will ever again be the person I was…sometimes I feel like I'm playing a part here, but that this isn't real. That the only real thing left is the mud and death…"

Mary raised her hands to his face. "I'm real, Matthew. And I see you." Her voice broke. She continued in a whisper, "I see _you_."

Matthew was quiet for a moment, lost in her eyes, before murmuring, "I've missed you, Mary. My God, how I've missed you." Her grip on her tightened, taking her breath away.

Mary's face broken into a watery smile. "I'm so sorry…all these years…wasted."

"No," Matthew shook his head. "No. Don't apologize. We've both been fools, stubborn fools. Perhaps that's why I love you so much."

He felt her shake in his hands, her head dipping as she trembled. Then her hands slipped around his neck, and she buried face in his chest. Only then did he hear her answer, whispered against his shirt. "I love you too, Matthew."

How long they stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, neither could have said.

* * *

Of course, Carson, if he had chosen to share such knowledge with anyone, could have relayed that the young couple remained on the patio for well over an hour before returning to the warmth of the house.

Being a professional, however, he would not have divulged such intimate details of the family's affairs to anyone but the Earl of Grantham. And seeing how his Lordship was in London, there was little more to do than to remark to Mrs. Hughes at the end of the night that he thought it most likely that there would soon be a wedding to brighten things up at Downton Abbey.

Perhaps at Christmas time, he finished, with a twinkle in his eye.

The End


End file.
